


Symbiotic

by laugh_a_latte



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Squip Jeremy Heere, Soulmates, Trigger Warning - Self harm, boyf riends - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2020-06-11 07:41:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19530697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laugh_a_latte/pseuds/laugh_a_latte
Summary: In a universe where you feel pain whenever your soulmate feels pain - Jeremy and Michael have stuff to figure out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **READ FIRST!**  
>  I'm gonna have to put a trigger warning on this one, folks! If you, in any way, could be affected by fic that revolves heavily around self-harm, please do not read! Your safety is more important!
> 
> ~~~~~
> 
> Yay another prompt fic!! This one was prompted twice in different ways, this is is my combination of the two!
> 
> Prompt: " . . . what about some soulmate AU (ofc Boyf riends, this is otp) but like, it's that one that you feel your soulmate's pain . . ." (by Kyuui_san)
> 
> Prompt: "AU's on when your soulmate gets hurt then their injury appears on you and maybe Jeremy finds out about why Michael wears bracelets through that instead of when they're young." (by shippingismylife321)
> 
> I am so excited to continue writing this one!

Rehearsal is running ridiculously late tonight, but it’s no surprise. Tech week. Jeremy slouches down further in his seat in the theatre, willing his eyes to stay open. They’re dry and itchy and in need of a few hours of good, deep sleep.

And Jeremy is struggling to keep them open. At least, until she’s on stage. In her bright purple dress and pink costume jacket and fluffy black hair. 

Jeremy watches Christine move effortlessly through her scene, speaking Shakespeare like it’s her first language. Jeremy looks and sits a little taller, leaning forward in his seat, and finds it annoying that he has to blink, because every second not looking at her is a second wasted.

And he is looking at every inch of her, every movement she makes, everything she is and everything she does. And he is looking at her so closely that he sees her shoelace is coming loose. Jeremy’s heartbeat increases. Oh man, oh boy. This is it. An excuse to talk to her. She’ll go backstage, and he’ll approach her and tell her.

He can see it now. He’ll say “Hey, Christine, your shoelace is untied.” And she’ll thank him and bend over to tie it then maybe, if he does everything exactly right, she’ll smile at him.

Jeremy feels a warmth pooling in his stomach just thinking about it.

And then it happens. Christine spins on her heel, but she doesn’t see that she’s stepping on her shoelace, and in a flash she’s on the ground. “Ow!”

And Jeremy watches her hand fly to her knee, which is red and scraped and starting to bleed. Jeremy puts his hand on his knee.

And nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Jeremy swallows. No, this can’t be right at all.

How can there be nothing?

Mr. Reyes is asking some kid to get the first aid kit and Christine is standing up and Jeremy still doesn’t feel any pain.

The warmth in his chest is quickly doused cold with disappointment.

It just can’t be right.

Jeremy tries not to cry or freak, because that is definitely not cool, as Christine gets patched up. He sits there until it’s the scene before his. Then he goes on stage and does the acting thing and wonders what the point is anyways.

Because if Christine was meant to be his and he was meant to be hers, he’d have felt that scrape. He’d have felt the pain. But all he felt was nothing.

It’s not until Jeremy is taking another seat backstage that he does start to feel pain, but it’s nowhere near his knee.

And he knows this pain, because it’s been happening more and more regularly for the past few weeks and he can’t for the life of him figure out where it’s coming from. Or who.

He rubs his stinging wrist on his jeans, trying to ease it, but it keeps coming back. And now Mr. Reyes is giving out notes before they can leave for the night. And Jeremy has to bite his sleeve to prevent from crying or yelling or screaming because it hurts so bad.

Jeremy is sitting there trying to breathe as it eases away. He looks at his wrist, red and raw from rubbing it so hard on his jeans.

And Jeremy looks at Christine, but she’s not affected at all. Of course she isn't, because she didn’t hurt her wrist. She hurt her knee. And Jeremy’s knee is perfectly fine, but his wrists feel like they’ve been cut off.

Finally Mr. Reyes is done. Jeremy grabs his backpack and high tails it out of the theatre as fast as he can.

He gets outside and the crisp, cold air hits his face. Jeremy breathes it in and wipes away the tears that come.

How is it not Christine?

Jeremy’s phone buzzes in his back pocket. Jeremy looks at it. Michael.

_sorry, running late_

And of fucking course. Of course Michael is running late.

Jeremy doesn't want to go back inside, but he doesn’t want to sit out here like a loser waiting for a ride because he doesn’t have a car, either.

Jeremy takes off around the block. 

It’s not Christine. It’s not, and tonight proves it. And he doesn’t understand because she’s the only girl he’s ever wanted like that. He thought he knew what a crush was, but it wasn’t until he met Christine that he really knew what one was, what it felt like. Every crush he thought he had before was nothing. Absolutely nothing in Christine’s light. And it hurts.

Jeremy sees headlights in the distance and stops. He realizes he’s crying rather hard and uses his sleeves to wipe the tears away. He breathes to get his throat to work normally again. The car is blasting music so loud that it can only be Michael. Jeremy walks to the curb as the car stops in front of him.

Jeremy walks around to the passenger door and pulls it open. Michael turns the volume down.

“ ‘Sup?” Michael clears his throat.

“Hey.”

“Sorry I’m late,” Michael says as Jeremy slams the door shut behind him, sinking into his seat.

“Yeah,” Jeremy sniffs.

“You good, man?” Jeremy looks over to Michael, but he can't see very well in this dark car. Jeremy watches him rub at his eye with the back of his sleeve.

“Yeah, just,” Jeremy looks away. Michael's eyes are tired. “I don’t, uh. I-I don’t think it’s Christine.”

“Oh,” Michael replies softly. He turns the music down all the way, and leaves the car in park. Jeremy's ears ring slightly from the sudden lack of noise. The silence is deafening. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Jeremy swallows again. He cannot cry about this in front of Michael. “She fell on stage tonight, and hurt her knee, and I-I didn’t feel a thing.” Jeremy rubs at his wrist.

“Oh” Michael replies. “Well, maybe . . . Maybe she just has thick skin?” Michael offers. Jeremy shakes his head.

“My wrist was hurting, though. Christine didn’t hurt her wrist."

Michael doesn't say anything to that. Jeremy glances over at him when he doesn’t reply.

There's a knot of tension prominent between his brows and instead of looking at him, he’s staring hard at the steering wheel and playing with his sleeve, pulled down to his fingertips. He cracks his neck.

“Maybe she sprained it or something? Didn’t . . . Didn’t you say she fell?”

“Yeah, but, like,” Jeremy shakes his head. “It felt like someone was trying to slash my fucking hand off, and Christine was just fine. ”

Michael doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t start driving, or turn the music back up, either. Jeremy watches him. He’s just looking hard at the steering wheel. The lights from the school are reflecting off of his glasses a little, which are sliding slowly down his nose, and he won’t stop playing with his sleeve.

“Dude, are you okay?”

“Huh?” Michael shakes his head and looks back at Jeremy, but his eyes are wide. Scared, almost, glinting from the school night lights.

Jeremy doesn’t know why and he doesn’t know what to say, but he’s a bit too preoccupied being crushed about Christine to dwell on it. So Jeremy just shakes his head. It's just Michael being weird. Michael being Michael. “Nevermind.”

Michael stares at him for another few seconds before he looks away to turn the music back up. He rests his hand on the gearshift and looks at it, rubbing his thumb across the cheap leather. "I'm just tired."

He says it so softly Jeremy isn't sure Michael even said it, and before he has a chance to process it, Michael is pushing his glasses back up his nose and singing softly to the music.

Jeremy looks out the window. He rolls it down as Michael takes his foot off the break and pulls away. The night air hits his face with a delicacy he needs. Jeremy focuses on that as best as he can. Michael's music carries him far, far away.


	2. Chapter 2

Michael shuts the basement door behind him softly. Jeremy asked him if he wanted to hang at his house a bit, but Michael couldn't do it. He knows Jeremy would only want to talk about Christine, and Michael just can’t do that right now.

And Michael is probably a bad friend for not being there for Jeremy when Jeremy needs him. Jeremy just seemed so heartbroken.

And maybe that does make him a bad friend, but he can think of other reasons he's a bad friend. Much bigger reasons.

Michael rests his forehead against the door. The wood is cold under his skin. He lifts his wrist and slowly pulls back his hoodie sleeve. A bit of the fabric pulls some dried blood away, and it stings.

Michael barely feels it. He wonders if Jeremy feels it, too.

And Michael doesn't know what to do.

And God. He wants to say he can't believe it's Jeremy. He cannot believe his soulmate is Jeremy. He wants to say that so bad.

But it's not really that surprising, is it?

Michael stares at his wrist. He wonders if Jeremy felt every one of those. The hesitant first few he ever did. The ones that came after.

That's not fair, Michael thinks.

He's hurting, and Jeremy has to feel the repercussions of that hurt. Jeremy never did anything.

It's just not fair.

It’s already pretty unfair that Jeremy has to deal with Michael everyday. His anxiety, his ticks, his weirdness. Everything about him.

But now Jeremy has to feel this pain, too.

And this horrible image flashes in his mind because everytime Michael does it, it's not enough. And he needs more to cope, to feel something, to feel somewhat okay again, all before the regret hits.

At least Jeremy doesn't have to feel the regret that comes with it. That's all Michael’s.

And Michael feels so heavy, like the world’s gravity is pulling down solely on his heart, as he sees that image his mind is supplying him. Jeremy, earlier tonight at rehearsal.

Fuck, maybe he was on stage. Maybe he was talking to Christine. Maybe he was just sitting backstage, holding his arm, staring at it, feeling the effects but not knowing the cause, wondering who in the fuck is stupid enough to do that sort of thing. Not knowing it’s his best friend doing it to him.

Fuck, Michael's the worst.

Michael pounds his other fist against the door, and presses his hand against his mouth.

He doesn't want to hurt Jeremy.

It's just not _fair._

And the worst part, Michael thinks, as he gives into that gravity, sliding down in front of the door, the worst part is that Jeremy is going to find out.

Jeremy is going to find out. Michael is going to have to tell him, or maybe something will happen and Jeremy will figure it out as soon as he's over Christine. And Jeremy will find out that his best friend is actually a fucking psycho. He’ll see how messed up Michael is and want nothing to do with him, soulmate or not.

God. Jeremy is going to find out that his soulmate is Michael Mell. What a downgrade from Christine. God, Jeremy’s going to be so disappointed, Michael thinks. He's going to be so disappointed.

Michael lies backward on the floor, staring at the popcorn ceiling of his basement, feeling worse than he did before picking Jeremy up. Way worse, and these thoughts in his brain won't stop, and he can't get them to stop on his own because they're _right_ , and he just wants to go back to the upstairs bathroom and finish what he started so these voices in his head will _shut up._

Michael brings his hands to his face. It's wet there. He doesn't want to feel that, so he runs them through his hair and pulls.

He can't. He can't. He _can't._ Now that he knows Jeremy will feel it, too.

And then a different thought creeps up on Michael.

Maybe it's not Jeremy. Maybe it's just a coincidence. Maybe some other poor idiot, Jeremy’s real soulmate, is doing what Michael's doing tonight, too. Wow, maybe it's not even Michael at all.

And the thought flashes briefly in his mind that if it's not Jeremy, that means some other person could still be feeling what he's doing. But that thought is quickly squashed by the bigger possibility that Michael doesn't even have a soulmate at all.

Yeah, that's it, Michael thinks. It can't be Jeremy. It just _can't_. And who would even be Michael's soulmate anyways? Maybe he’s just one of those people who doesn’t have a soulmate. Yeah. It’s probably better that way.

Michael runs his hands back over his face before he pushes himself off the floor.

* * *

The sudden pain causes Jeremy to slip and almost die getting out of the shower. He catches himself on the sink.

“What the fuck,” Jeremy pulls a towel off the rack and wraps it around himself as the pain ripples on his skin. It's never been that sharp before.

Jeremy sits on the toilet, shaking, because it's never just one, and he doesn't know when the next will hit or how painful it'll be, and he'd rather not get caught in his shirt and fall and almost die again if it hits at the worst time.

Jeremy looks at his wrist, his other arm wrapped tightly around him, trying to stop the shaking. Waiting.

_It's not Christine. It's not Christine. It's not Christine._

The record that's been on repeat in his head skips, because for the first time since figuring that out tonight, Jeremy is almost relieved because at least that means Christine isn't hurting herself.

Jeremy's been going crazy, wondering. He couldn’t think of anything else this pain could be. And he's tried. He's tried so hard to rationalize this in any other way, but nothing. And it's been digging away at his gut, this dread that his Christine could be doing this to herself.

Tonight proves that's not the case. And Jeremy is still gutted to his core that it's not Christine, because he thinks he loves her, but at least that means Christine isn't hurting herself.

Jeremy doesn’t think he could handle that. Someone he loves doing this, because it fucking sucks and fucking hurts and makes no fucking sense that anyone could do this. But despite that, somewhere out there, someone is. Someone he's destined to love.

“ _Shit,_ ” Jeremy hisses, wrapping his arms around himself as the second wave he knew was coming hits. It _hurts_.

It's not Christine.

And it hurts.


	3. Chapter 3

Jeremy knows what to expect the next day. He does not expect it to be as bad as it is.

Then again, he didn’t expect the pain the felt last night to be as bad as it was, either.

But today, it’s itching. So much itching. It’s weird, because itching isn’t exactly pain, so he doesn’t think it’s something he should be feeling, but this type of itching is stemming from a type of pain that makes Jeremy feel sick just thinking about, so he guesses it counts in the twisted mind of whatever it is that makes him have this connection.

So Jeremy’s arm itches.

His leg won’t stop bouncing, either, because all this itching is distracting the hell out of him, and now he’s freaking out in English.

He looks at a head two rows in front of him, with fluffy black hair, searching for any form of discomfort in her body. But Christine looks completely okay.

Jeremy rocks back in his seat. God, he needs to stop doing that. He knows it isn’t her. He just can’t help it, because who else could this be?

Jeremy just wants to figure it out so he can tell them to stop doing this to him, to them, because it fucking hurts.

And it’s red, hot, itching. So much so that Jeremy can feel the heat radiating off of his arm through his cardigan.

And Jeremy can’t take it anymore. He pushes himself out of his desk and leaves as quickly as possible, trying to ignore the pressing stares of his classmates as he presses his burning arm to his chest. Mr. Bailey just keeps on droning on.

Once he’s in the hallway, he starts running, pushing up his sleeve as the burning intensifies. He makes it to the bathroom, cursing as he looks down at his arm. The pain is so bad he’s positive that it’ll be bleeding, but no. Of course it isn’t because there’s nothing there.

Jeremy makes it to the sink and looks at himself in the mirror. He’s shaking, and a sheen of sweat has broken out on his forehead.

He looks back down at the sink and twists the cold water on. He shoves his arm under the sputtering spray, expecting the heat of the itching to ease away when the cool water hits.

He does not expect it when that cold water hitting his arm stings instead.

“ _Shit_ ,” Jeremy hisses, pulling his arm out from under the water.

He looks at it.

That’s never happened before.

It felt so real.

Jeremy can only imagine what his soulmate must have felt from that.

Jeremy’s stomach churns again and he debates if he should move into a stall, near a toilet, just in case, but the feeling passes.

And the sudden sting is easing away, and Jeremy doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t want to risk the cold water again, but he’s still kind of sweaty and shaky and his arm still itches worse than ever.

Jeremy walks to the door, thinking he should probably go back to class. But he doesn’t want to be sweaty and shaky in class, especially if Christine is in that class.

Jeremy stops abruptly in front of the door. God, he’s _got_ to stop thinking like that—it doesn't matter what Christine thinks anymore, does it?

Suddenly, Jeremy hears the sound of heavy footsteps on the other side of the door, but he’s too distracted to register it in time, and then the door is opening so quickly that Jeremy can’t even think to react before it’s slamming into his face.

“ _Shit_ ,” he yells as the door hits him hard. There’s a sickening crunch, and at first there’s nothing, but Jeremy knows the delay won’t last long. Sure enough, just as he starts raising his hand to his nose, the pain hits hard, radiating from his nose through his skull.

And then he hears Michael’s voice.

“ _Ouuuuch_.”

And that can’t be right.

Jeremy looks up to see Michael holding his nose. 

Jeremy looks at Michael. He looks at the door. Then back at Michael.

Wait.

Jeremy looks at the door. Michael is holding it, far from his face.

Jeremy looks at Michael. Michael’s holding his nose, like the door just slammed into it.

Jeremy looks at the door, far away from Michael’s face because it didn’t slam into Michael’s face. It slammed into Jeremy’s.

Then why is Michael holding his nose like that? It didn’t hit _him_ in the nose.

_Wait._

Jeremy feels the first wave of pain easy away. Michael’s eyes grow wide.

Michael starts to drop his hand.

But Jeremy needs to be sure.

And he knows it’s going to hurt, but isn’t that sort of the point?

He pushes his hand into his nose. The pain ripples through his skull.

Michael’s hand flies back up to his nose. “ _Fuck_.”

“Michael—”

No, no, no. 

Jeremy pushes on his nose again.

“Jesus Christ, Jere, _stop_ it. That _hurts_ ,” Michael whines, taking a few steps back from the door, bending over, rubbing his nose. “Oh God, did I break it?”

“Michael . . .”

No, no, no, no—

“Shit, Jere, you’re bleeding,” Michael says, his eyes still so, so wide. He steps into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him with a soft, quiet _click._

Jeremy drops his hand a little and looks at it. Yeah, he is bleeding.

Michael walks past him and into a stall. Jeremy stares at him as he gets a wad of toilet paper.

Michael.

No. That can’t be right, because that means.

Jeremy feels heat radiating off of his forearm. Itching, itching, itching.

“Michael, you . . .”

“Here, uhhh,” Michael locks eyes with Jeremy. Jeremy thinks that Michael’s eyes are much too shiny. Then, Michael blinks to break the eye contact, and Jeremy briefly wonders if he looks as scared as Michael does. “Tilt your head back? I think that’s—I think that’s what you’re supposed to . . .”

Jeremy’s eyes dart around Michael’s, trying to catch his gaze again, but Michael’s determined not to let that happen as he tilts Jeremy’s head back. His warm finger presses gently under Jeremy’s chin.

“No—”

“Here, hold that there.” Michael gently places the tissue under Jeremy’s nose.

A shock of pain shoots through Jeremy’s nose when he does.

“ _Ow._ ” Michael jumps. “Ouch. Sorry.”

Jeremy’s eyes fall from the ceiling to Michael’s hoodie-covered wrist, so close to Jeremy’s face as Michael continues to hold the tissue in place.

Jeremy puts his hand on the tissue. Michael drops his. His sleeves are pulled down to his fingertips. His sleeves are always pulled down to his fingertips.

Jeremy never really noticed before.

“Feels like I broke it,” Michael says, taking a step back, rubbing his nose.

Jeremy drops his chin down. He can feel the blood rush out of his nose when he does, but he doesn’t care. He needs to look at Michael.

“Michael.”

Jeremy expects Michael to deny it. He expects Michael to look him in the eye, and tell him this isn’t true, and he did actually hit his nose somehow. He needs Michael to do that.

But Michael doesn’t look him in the eye. He just keeps looking at his hoodie sleeves.

And instead of denying it, he just says, “I’m sorry.” Jeremy watches his fingers toy with the ends of his sleeves. Michael sniffs, and his eyes are open so, so wide, and they’re only getting shinier, and they still won’t look at Jeremy. “I’m sorry.”

And Jeremy doesn’t understand.

“Sorry?”

“I’m sorry it’s me, Jeremy. I’m sorry it’s me.” Michael says and says, taking another step backwards. His voice sounds so strained. He clears his throat, then clears it again, and blinks and blinks. “ _Fuck._ ”

“Michael, stop that.”

Michael keeps backing away, and Jeremy doesn’t want him to do that. Jeremy doesn’t want Michael to leave. And Jeremy doesn’t want Michael to look so scared. Jeremy doesn’t want him to be sorry, either, because Jeremy doesn’t know what Michael has to be sorry for.

“Why are you apologizing, Michael?” And he hears his voice shaking, and he doesn’t want _that_ to happen, either.

“I hurt you, Jeremy—I’m hurting you,” Michael presses one arm to his side, and rubs it against his sleeve. And Jeremy hates that, because now Michael’s crying, and Jeremy can’t have that.

The arm Jeremy’s using to hold the tissue stops itching, and then it starts burning and stinging. He clutches it with his other hand. “Stop crying, Michael.”

And Jeremy knows he’s the worlds biggest hypocrite for saying that. His eyes are stinging.

Jeremy takes a step towards him. Michael’s bent over. He can barely breathe he’s crying so hard now. Jeremy hears him hiccup.

“—I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—sorry—”

Jeremy drops the tissue and slowly, gently, places his hand on top of Michael’s, there on his knee. Jeremy kneels down to look at him.

“I didn’t know, Michael, I—” Jeremy’s arm is on fire.

Michael pulls his hand away like Jeremy burned it.

Jeremy stares at him.

“I’m sorry,” Michael says, taking in a staggering breath, he looks Jeremy right in the eye. “I just,” and then he smiles, but it doesn’t look right at all. “I didn’t want you to—find out it was me.”

Hold on. “You—you knew?”

“You felt it,” Michael says, looking down at his arm. “Fuck, man, I just—I didn’t—I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean that, Jeremy,” Michael rubs his hands over his face. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Michael, why are you—I’m not hurt. See?” Jeremy holds his arm out, his bare, smooth arm, begging because he needs Michael to stop doing that. “You didn’t hurt me, it’s okay, Michael, I’m-I’m not—” Jeremy feels his throat close, and then he feels the dam break inside of him and he suddenly can’t stop crying, either.

He was right.

He can’t handle someone he loves doing this.

Jeremy realizes they’re both on the floor now. He doesn’t remember sinking to the floor. “I’m so s-sorry I never noticed.”

This whole time. Jeremy felt everything. And he didn’t even notice it was right in front of him.

“ _Michael._ ”

“Jesus, Jeremy, stop crying,” Michael insists, but it’s muffled under his hands.

“You stop, you _idiot._ ”

Michael’s cries become quieter, and quieter, and he doesn’t say anything back to Jeremy, which makes Jeremy freak on the inside, because he just called Michael an idiot and maybe he shouldn’t have done that. Jeremy looks at him. But, despite his cries becoming quieter, Michael’s body is still shaking, his face hidden beneath his hands.

“Michael?”

And then Michael lets out a sound, and it’s nothing like crying at all.

Michael drops his hands. He’s laughing.

“Why are—” Jeremy starts, but then he feels his breath shift before he can help it. “Why are you laughing?” And even though his breath is still coming as quickly and unevenly as if he were crying, Jeremy can’t help it when that breath becomes laughter.

“Look at us,” Michael says, throwing his arms out between them. “Crying on the bathroom floor. This is the most pathetic thing I’ve ever taken part in,” Michael drops his arms and wraps them around his knees. “And _that_ is saying something.”

And Jeremy is laughing, and Michael’s is laughing. And the sun is streaming in from the little window above the stalls, hitting Michael’s wet, tear-stained face. And suddenly he’s glowing.

Jeremy’s breath catches. “You’re my soulmate.”

“Heh,” Michael says, laughter dying away. “Yeah."

“Yeah.”

For a few moments, it's silence, save for the buzzing hum of the bathroom light and the odd sniff between them. Jeremy's mind goes blank, but he can practically hear Michael's working like crazy across from him.

“Is, um,” Michael looks down, clearing his throat, the edges of his smile softening until they disappear. His face isn’t glowing anymore. “Is that okay?”

And his voice is suddenly so small. Jeremy can’t speak for a second.

“That it’s me? And not um. Christine,” Michael says, pulling at his sleeve. Jeremy watches, feeling like such a blind idiot. “Because, I mean, that kind fucking sucks right? That it’s me—”

“Michael.”

“—And not Christine, I mean you-you—”

“Michael,” Jeremy says, louder this time. Michael stops pulling at his sleeve. Jeremy watches that, too, thinking of what could be under that sleeve.

Not now, Jeremy. Later. That's for later.

Jeremy leans forward, catching Michael’s eye, and he could almost start crying because—

“You’re my soulmate. I’m your soulmate, oh my God," Jeremy _is_ an idiot. "I think-I think that’s pretty fucking—pretty fucking—" 

Because he was so blinded by Christine, he couldn’t even see Michael right in front of him. "Yeah?" 

And now that Michael’s sitting here, right in front of him, it just seems so obvious.

"Pretty fucking _awesome._ "

Michael lifts his face. It catches the sunlight.

And now, Jeremy doesn’t think he could ever see anyone but Michael ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She's finally finished!
> 
> Thank you for your patience, this fic took me way too long to complete. All of your comments and wonderful feedback really helped <3 Thanks for reading!!


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